


christmas flus

by midwinter_stars



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Holidays, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 15:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13149336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midwinter_stars/pseuds/midwinter_stars
Summary: Hanamaki wakes up to one of the crappiest colds he's ever had in his life, and it just happens to be on Christmas Day.In other words, Takahiro is a miserable mess, and Issei is gentle when he wants to be.





	christmas flus

**Author's Note:**

> Because who doesn't love a good Christmas morning flu? 
> 
> I sure don't, but I've woken up to them about six times in my life.

“Hey. How’re you feeling?”

He doesn’t register the words- he sniffs thickly, pressing the bases of his palms against his stinging eyes.

When he opens them, the brightness of the hall light is enough to make him cringe, and he attempts to focus his vision on the blurry figure in front of him. 

His entire body feels like lead; his head is pounding in unison to his sluggish heartbeat, and everything is so goddamn cold, despite the fact that he’s sure he’s beneath about three blankets right now. His nose is running over like a faucet, dripping down his face, and his sinuses burn like hell. He can feel a sneeze rising in the back of his throat. It’s disgusting, and he feels unbelievably gross and awful. He probably looks like a train wreck, and he wishes that he could just bury himself in the comforter and restart his whole day-

“Makki.”

Issei’s frighteningly frigid hand jolts him from a feverish doze, and he jerks with a wheezy intake of air that sends him into a chesty coughing fit.

The older boy lets out a small noise of concern, rubbing his back from above the nest of fabric as he curls in on himself. When he’s done, he rubs futilely at his raw nose with a wrist. Is he bleeding? This couldn’t all be snot. His upper lip is chapped and rough, and even touching his face is enough to send a grimace across his pale features. He feels goddamn awful-

“Hey, Hiro. Answer me.”

Oh. Right. Matsukawa was here.

“Hnng,” he manages to groan, voice nasally and congested. Mattsun pinches his nose with a tissue, wiping off his face; Hanamaki makes a tiny sound of pain, squinting his eyes shut.

“Feeling that well, huh?”

He gives an cracked, unhappy groan, rubbing his knuckles against his temples. He can’t even tell what noises are real or fake. Matsukawa’s voice sounds too loud, breathing hurts, and he wants to cry. His feet feel too warm and the rest of his body is a damn icecube.

“Mattsun…”

The cold hand moves to ruffle his tangled hair gently, and he hears a low sigh through his aching ears.

“I know.”

His vision is swimming with a rainbow of colors, and his head is pounding. Matsukawa presses another tissue into his hand, and he covers a heavy cough with his sleeve.

“Hey. You want something to eat?” The older boy pats Hanamaki on the back firmly, waiting until the provoked bout of coughing stops before anticipating his response.

“Don’t want anything.” His voice sounds like tires on gravel, and his throat feels raw and scraped as if he had been trapped in a house fire for six hours too long.

“I’ll get you some fever reducers and juice.” Hanamaki gives an incoherent noise of disdain as Matsukawa presses a kiss to his heated forehead. “I love you.” All he can manage in response is a half-hearted squeak of discomfort.

It takes a good five minutes for Takahiro to finally find the motivation to push himself up to lay on his pillows, head thudding dully against the front of the bed; he crosses his arms, burying his hands in the confines of Issei’s university sweatshirt. He’s dimly aware of Matsukawa entering the room again, trying to hold back a cough as the other man comes to coax him into a slightly higher sitting position.

With a clatter and a hum, the older boy sets a cup of orange juice, thermometer, and a few different pills onto the bedside table.

“Merry Christmas,” he says softly, kneeling by the mattress and giving Makki a gentle hug; the strawberry-blonde glanced passively at the assortments of medication next to his cup, and Matsukawa kisses his temple firmly, offering up the thermometer as it beeps loudly. He lets his partner stick it beneath his tongue, sniffling at a lingering tickle.

“I feel awful, Issei,” he finally whispers, mumbling around the metal tip of the device, moving to rub at the aching area behind his jaw and below his ear.

“I know, Hiro. I’m sorry.” Matsukawa takes the meter from him, glancing over the reading. There’s a short pause before he responds again. “Thirty-eight and eight.”

Hanamaki laughs sourly, which sends him into a bout of coughing; his lungs feel like they’re wrapped with barbed wire, and he swallows a pill as tears bead in his eyes. He must look so goddamn pathetic right now.

“Yeah. Merry Christmas,” he croaks, tone sour when he manages to get his words out; his voice is laden with congestion and dripping with sarcasm. Mattsun gives a disapproving, quiet mumble, taking the cup from Hanamaki’s weak fingers.

“It’s fine, Hiro. It’s not ruined.”

“It seems p-pretty ruined to me-” His voice fizzles out with a tickling sensation in his chest, and Issei raises his eyebrows in question. “Gonna… gonna sneeze. Hold on.”

His hand comes up a moment too late to shield his mouth, but Mattsun nabs a tissue and presses it into his clammy hold in the nick of time; he sneezes thrice, with a questionable fourth at the end. Matsukawa sighs, letting his boyfriend take the tissue from his shaking fingers.

“It’s going to be fine. We’ll make it a good one.” Hanamaki blows his nose with the second offered tissue, wincing slightly when Matsukawa retrieves them from his grasp. “Okay? You trust me.” The pinkish-blonde takes the medication and glass handed to him once again with shaky hands, glaring down at them unhappily.

Four more pills. Four. He thinks that, if given the opportunity, he’d choose to die rather than try to take them. He’d rather throw himself out of Matsukawa’s truck on the highway, or jump off of Tooru’s apartment complex-

He manages, though, through some miracle; and after three minutes of swallowing varied meds through a closed throat, he gives Matsukawa the cup before hacking a chesty cough into the crook of his elbow.

“Do the Oikawas know?” he finally croaks, clutching onto the sleeve of Issei’s nightshirt. His messy-haired husband laughs quietly, kneeling by the bedside to rest his chin on the mattress and look up at Takahiro.

“I told Tooru,” he says. “Didn’t really matter. He says he’s bringing gifts either way, around seven. I told him he’ll get sick.”

“Hajime’s gonna hate me if he gets sick. Tooru’s whiny.”

“Not your fault,” Matsukawa concludes, cracking his knuckles and resting his arms across Hanamaki’s blanketed legs. “You wanna watch Christmas movies?” Hanamaki sniffles pitifully, abstaining from an answer.

Issei comes around the side of the bed, lifting the comforter so he can slide underneath; Takahiro feels a draft of cold air, shuddering slightly before letting Matsukawa draw him into a warm embrace.

“I really don’t feel good.” His voice is barely above a raspy whisper, and he buries his head into his spouse’s shoulder; the tall man murmurs softly in sympathy.

“I know, Hiro.”

He shuts his eyes against woolen fabric, breathing in deep through his mouth; he stifles a thick cough into Matsukawa’s chest, and as he's mumbling his apology, the healthy man pats his back firmly with an “It’s okay.”

Hanamaki stirs in his fevered slumber twice due to unwelcome coughing fits; each time, he’s dimly aware of the TV light and sound of English speaking. Matsukawa’s arms are still draped around his shoulders, holding him loosely.

The third time he wakes, it’s because of Issei’s gentle shaking of his shoulder.

“Hanamaki.”

He grumbles incoherently, trying to prop himself up- his aching muscles give out on him, and he stays laying down.

Those cold hands touch his neck again, and he jerks upwards; a nasty coughing fit starts up, and he groans. Matsukawa, decidedly, has the audacity to laugh; Hanamaki glares pointedly as the older man helps him up. He’s feeling better, at best; he’s a little less stiff, and it’s a little easier to breathe. It’s still too damn cold- and this fucking cough-

“Sorry. I didn’t want to scare you getting back into bed.”

“I’m never going to get better, and it’s your fault.” Though, Matsukawa presses a kiss to his head, which kind of makes up for it.

Issei eventually makes a move to sit on the mattress, sliding his phone out of his pocket; he puts one arm around Hanamaki, pulling them together.

“Hajime got Tooru a puppy,” he says, and Hiro lets out a soft gasp. “He sent me videos. Wanna see?”  
“Yes. Yeah.”

From the videos, (though blurry with movement) an adorable black and white puppy is displayed; floppy ears, sweet brown eyes, and a pink-tongued, toothy grin. Tooru is hilariously watery-eyed, as if he’s seeing his own newborn child for the first time. He shields an ill-timed cough into his sleeve, turning towards the side table.

“She’s a collie mix. Three months old.”  
“I’m going to steal her.” Matsukawa snorts.  
“I’ll help.”

Hanamaki sighs dismissively; he grasps onto the sleeve of Matsukawa’s shirt, sniffling. Another bout of coughing forces its way up from his chest, and he tenses slightly with the effort.

“You want any cough syrup?” Matsukawa asks absentmindedly, scrolling through Snapchat on his phone.  
“What? Hell no. Tastes like that punch Tetsurou spiked last New Year’s Eve. Makes me gag.”  
“Yeah, but it might help.”  
“And I might throw up, too.” That was the end of that conversation.  
Eventually, Issei switches his phone off; he shifts, disturbing a half-asleep Hanamaki with a startled grunt of annoyance. He just as quickly settles down again, though, hands grasping the fabric of his husband’s flannel nightshirt as the older man pulls him back into a hug.

“We’ll go up and see your family as soon as you feel better, yeah?”  
“Do we have to?” Issei stifles a chuckle.  
“At least your mom. Tell her to lock your brothers up.”

Silence.

“I know I’ve slept most of the day, but thanks for… not getting bored, I guess.”  
“Romantic.”  
“No, really.” Takahiro moves to glance up at Mattsun, eyes glassy but grateful. “I don’t feel great, but hey. At least you’re willing to stay with me.”  
“No reason not to.”  
“Hm. I love you.” He pulls himself up to place his forehead against Issei’s shoulder; the older boy hums softly, putting his chin to rest on Hanamaki’s mop of hair. “You’re the best.”  
“You’re sappy when you’re tired.”  
“I’m not sappy.”  
“Sure.” Hanamaki sighs. “Look on the bright side. All the restaurants’ll be open tomorrow. We can get something good to eat.”  
“You can cook.”  
“I don’t want to.”  
“Cook for me, then,” he concludes, coughing slightly into Issei’s arm. “Christmas present. I’ll pretend I don’t know.”  
“Fine.”

Hanamaki makes a content noise, draping one arm under Matsukawa’s and resting it on his waist.  
“It’s been an okay Christmas. Chalk that up to a win in your book.”  
“Score. Told you.” Takahiro gives no response, instead turning his face in towards the blankets. Matsukawa plays with his hair soothingly, breathing softly. There’s a quiet moment before Issei speaks again.

“I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Mildly inspired by my own experiences. It's a little rocky, and I know that- I've reread the story so many times it makes me feel sick to look at it. It's my first work; there'll be mistakes.
> 
> Happy Holidays, and thank you for reading :)


End file.
